I Saw Avery Kissing Santa Claus ...

Soooooooooo, Avery pitched a bit of a fit when he had a chance to meet the real Santa Claus a couple of weeks back, but my youngest grandchild recovered enough to get cozy during a visit to our place this weekend for an early Christmas.

OK, so maybe Snoopy isn't the same as the real McCoy, but little steps for little fellers who are a few months shy of their second birthdays, eh? This time next year, his cousins Amelia and the Four Horsemen will have him trained to seal his letter to Santa with a kiss just like they do.

I know you're all used to columns that go on, and on, and on, but you're in luck today: I'm just wrapping up a 9.5-hour shift at work in my home office, with barely a potty break, and I'm too tired to wax eloquently. Plus, I'm out of words.

And, anyway, like they say, a picture is worth a thousand words.

Patrick Sticks a Lego Where the Sun Don't Shine, and Nurses Stick It To Vincent

Patrick certainly put a different spin on the old ad adage, “Leggo my Eggo,” when he rushed to Melissa and implored: “Mommy, get it OUT!”

He pointed frantically to his nose, and she couldn’t imagine why he raised such a clatter — until she rushed to the window of his nostrils to see what was the matter. To her surprise, and chagrin, she discovered that a Lego had become lodged deep in the darkness of one of his wind tunnels.

And it wasn’t just resting in there, like a booger about to be freed from its entrapment in his teensy-tiny nose hairs and waft into the atmosphere. Unfortunately, it wasn’t a square peg in a round hole, which might have been easier to dislodge with a tweezers in a practiced hand. Rather, it was a round piece that had worked its way farther up the lad’s nostril as he had tried to retrieve it.

I couldn’t help but regret, as Melissa told me the story over the phone, that I had neglected to tell Patrick never to put anything in his nose except a finger on a mining expedition, or, perhaps, his elbow. (I know that echoes the advice never to put anything in your ear bigger than your elbow, so call me orifice retentive; you just shouldn’t put stuff where it doesn’t belong.)

No, this isn't Patrick with the Lego up his nose, because nobody had a teeny-tiny camera to send on a journey to the center of his nostril. As you may recall, this was his Target Secret moment when he went bra hopping. He just has this HABIT of putting things where they don't belong. (SMILE)


God only knows how or why Patrick stuck the Lego where the sun don’t shine, and Melissa probably figured that only God would know how to get it out.


As Patrick Michael flailed and railed, Mommy tried to remain calm. She urged him to blow air out of his nostril, as if he were blowing his nose. Of course, we all know that a 3-year-old hasn’t mastered such basic bodily functions, among others — especially when he’s got a Lego lodged in his snotlocker.

So the lad was inhaling instead of propelling the Lego from his hangar into orbit. It really sucked.

Melissa sent Skip to the computer so he could Google a magic solution to avoid having to traipse to the E.R., sitting there for hours, and having to fork over hundreds for an insurance co-pay. One website that proffers fixes for children’s mishaps suggested pepper, cinnamon, or something else to induce a sneeze.

As Mom lined up those options, she called a nurse friend for a second opinion. Laura cautioned against being too creative because, if the tricks didn’t work and they had to go to the E.R., staffers would have to report it as an “incident,” which could lead to reports and, well, you know the drill. It’s better not to try it at home.

Another option was using air to force out the plastic intruder. Being a gentle mom, Melissa wouldn’t have considered using a shop vac, no matter how gently, as a wag would suggest to her later.

Instead, she told her youngest that she was going to kiss him and blow into his mouth at the same time. This she did, becoming a human jaws of life of sorts, blowing gently while she closed off the free nostril.

Ka-BLAM, the Lego shot across the room like an RPG, she reported to me with relief.

Patrick was shocked and awed, startled, and stunned. Shocked and awed that he could breathe, and startled and stunned that the Lego piece was orange.

“MOMMY!” he exclaimed. “I thought it was a red piece!”

And that’s the way it is with kids, recovering with a practical observation after courting disaster.

I suppose it’s important to note that no Legos were harmed in this incident.

The tale segues to another medical emergency, and one that ended up being more perilous. It involved Vincent, just a day or two after Patrick’s Lego moment, that showed the 10-year-old’s indomitably optimistic approach to life.

He had been feeling poorly for a day or so. You know the scenario: sick enough to suggest staying home from school, but not sick enough to miss flag football. (Well, to be perfectly honest, Vincent normally wouldn’t lobby to stay home from school. He’s the type whose hair would have to be on fire before he would even consider skipping school — and even then he’d try to put on a hat to snuff the flames and then head to school. So the fact that he even suggested it this time indicates he was really sick, although he did want to go to flag football, and he did.)

So Skip and Melissa did the usual doctoring that parents can do, but Vincent took a turn for the worse around 11 p.m. His lips ballooned so big that they would have made a Snoopy balloon in Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade look like a stocking stuffer.

She called a doctor’s service, who told her to high-tail it to E.R. Once there, the nurses hopped to it, sticking in an IV and fitting him with an oxygen mask.

Even though it took three sticks to connect the IV to a vein (driving Melissa NUTS — as every mom [and many dads] knows, it’s hard to watch your own child be a pin cushion even when the needle hits the target the first time), Vincent took everything not only in stride but also with an optimism that would make Pollyanna look like a pessimistic, prickly porcupine.

Looking around the room as Melissa stood watch, he observed, “This isn’t too bad. The bed is comfortable, and we’re getting to spend time together.”

Ah, good times. Well, those good times stretched to nearly five hours as docs and nurses tried to figure out what might have sparked the apparent allergic reaction and to treat it.

Even at this point, serving as a pin cushion and surrounded by hospital paraphernalia, Vincent tries to put on a happy face. But he said to Melissa after she took the photo: "Sorry if my smile is not so good. It's kind of hard to smile now." I bet Melissa teared up at that show of courage under needles. Recalling the exchange, she says: "He is amazing!"

On way home, at 4:30 a.m., Melissa noted that they probably should grab some breakfast before trying to get some shuteye.

So Mom and her firstborn pulled into Dunkin’ Donuts for a little more quality time.

Ahhh, good times. But I can’t help but wonder: If Patrick puts 2 and 2 together and realizes Vincent snagged some doughnut holes for his emergency, while all he got was an orange snot rocket out of his deal, he just might give another Lego a wedgie into his nostril.

NOW I Know Why Avery's Skeert of Me

Avery has been in a phase of late, one that might faze lesser men than I. Although the lad is still more than three months from being in his own terrible 2s, he has settled into a streak in which he’s terrified of me. (Many contend that my own terrible 2s have continued for 60-plus years.)

Even though he runs away from me with Olympic speed, I have talked myself into being unflappable rather than flummoxed.

I’ve got evidence that he wasn’t always so skeert of me. And I know it isn’t all about me, because I have further evidence that his parents have duped the normally happy lad into acting terrified around me.

You see, they have made his blood run purple. And that, my friends, is why he lets out blood-curdling screams when I approach. Indeed, his terror smacks him sight unseen. A couple of weeks back, when Kate and I trekked from our new digs in La Crosse, Wis., to his new digs in a Twin Cities suburb to visit, he started screaming when he saw her, because he’s bright enough to realize that, when she’s around, I can’t be far away.

Sure ’nuf, when I rounded the corner, his screams intensified, and he clung to Mommy all the tighter. Oh, he’d give me fist-bumps and high-fives, but he screamed bloody murder when I tried to pick him up.

Oddly enough, these incidents came only a few months after we’d had great fun playing together, and he even tried to look down my gullet to see what I’m made of or, perhaps, what I had for dinner.

Here is photographic evidence that we can get along famously, in happier times:







Shortly thereafter, though, his terrors of me happened day or night, although they remind me of the night terrors his dad experienced as a young boy when he sleepwalked, often morphing into episodes of fear.

But back then, in the days of Refrigerator Perry, Brendan was a Bears fan, as many folks in Dubuque, Iowa, were, so I doubt that there was a football connection to his bad dreams.

After we moved to Minnesota, though, he got the purple gangrene, a malady that his milady, Erica, shares.

So I suspect a Vikings connection with Avery aversion to me. Time was, I even fancied myself as a Vikings fan, even when I lived in Florida, because I couldn’t stand the Miami Dolphins, let alone the dadgummed Gator Nation.

Now that I’m ensconced in the Badger State, home of the Packers green and gold, I suspect that they’re green with envy, especially because the Packers are golden these days. And the Vikings are, well, hardly deserving of the Nordic name.

Brendan and Erica — well, probably Brendan moreso than Erica — have forced the Vikings upon Avery almost from the moment he popped into the world.

Indeed, during the tot’s first football seasons on Earth, Mom and Dad decked him out in Vikings apparel.


Obviously, Avery has no idea that his parents use him as a pawn on Game Daze, in these duds they forced him into when he didn't have enough hair to stand on end at the terrifying thought of what they had done.

Kate and I avoided the temptation to turn them over to child protective services for abusing the lad. Actually, we did so because child protection could have looked at us askance for giving him a battery-operated car for his first Christmas. OK, so he was too young, but I got a great deal on the “Cars” car, and I’d become addicted to giving the Four Horsemen cars when they were too young, too.

Fortunately, he didn’t learn how to drive it until a few months ago, but even then, he drove it like the Vikings have played football this season: straight into a tree. And he just kept his pedal to the metal, as the spinning wheels tossed mulch into the air.



I just got back from a visit to the next generation of Tighes, once removed from me, and I made some headway. Early on, he went to great pains to avoid me, clinging to the wall as he walked around the house so he could stay as far away from me as possible.

But after he feasted on pizza, when he was still trapped in the high chair so he couldn’t flee, he actually laughed and giggled when I tickled him. We parted on super terms.

Only later, though, did I discover that the plot had thickened, with an expanded list of players. Of course, I had worn my Packers jacket, to taunt the Vikings Purple People Eaters.

After I left Avery’s place, I went to my daughter Allison’s salon. She smiled at my jacket and said Brendan had texted her about it. That seemed odd, but I assumed he had texted a message saying something like, “I can't BELIEVE that Dad is wearing Packers green and gold.”

Allison told me to turn around, so she could see “the letters,” so I did, thinking she meant the Packers. She laughed, and her customer laughed.

Only later, when I took my jacket off, did I see that somebody had vandalized it, covering “Packers” with a piece of tape saying, “SUCK.” AHA! Proof that they’re brainwashing the boy, and THAT's why he's been afraid of me. Very, VERY afraid, because I represent something that's crushed the Viqueens.

Frustrated Vikings fans resort to vandalism because they can't win. Fortunately, it's only a misdemeanor, unlike the Vikes' felonious season.

I blamed Brendan at first, until I noticed that the handwriting looked more like Erica’s block letters than his. And NOW, I’ve discovered, through sleuthing and a spy who will remain nameless, that her dad was in on the scheme, too.

I’m stunned, STUNNED, I tell ya, that a man of the cloth would stoop to vandalism. Obviously, Larry is man of the purple cloth.

Well, I suspect that I’ll be getting the last laugh when the Pack gives the Vikings a football lesson in their second meeting of the season Monday night. I predict a reprise of the Packers’ 33-27 win over the Vikings in October.

That will give the Purple Gang reason to cry in their purple beer. And I’ll be able to convert Avery to being a fan of a quarterback whose name also starts with an A, Aaron Rodgers.

And we'll see who sucks.

Allison Morphs From a Scaredy-Kid Into a Soft-Hearted Aunt

Time was, I didn’t think I’d ever see Allison warm up to kids. Well, let me refine that: Time was, I didn’t think I’d ever see Allison warm up to children.

If you buy the old admonition that you shouldn’t call children kids because kids are goats, then Al always has liked kids because she always has favored animals. At one time, she even aspired to becoming a veterinarian.

I swear, there have been times when she would have thrown me under the bus to save an animal. (That’s why I lied to her during a family trip when she was about 5 or 6. Driving in the dark on a two-lane, rural highway, I couldn’t swerve to avoid the raccoon. I SWEAR, I didn’t have time to swerve, and the coon froze like a deer in headlights. When Allison heard the “thump-thump-thump” under the car, she awoke from a slumber in the back seat and said, “What was that?” “It was just a rock in the road,” I said as Annie and Brendan exchanged knowing glances [as older siblings are wont to do]. “Go back to sleep.” Had I told the truth, she’d have tossed me under the van.)

Actually, I even recall the time she did throw somebody under the bus, after a fashion, although it wasn’t me. It occurred shortly after I moved to Florida, after she graduated from high school, lo those many years ago.

A hurricane — I can’t remember which one, there were so many that year — had just raked South Florida, and I called Al back home to regale her with tales of my first experience with that side of Mother Nature.

I told her the tragic story of a group of five adults out walking a dog to survey the damage resulting from the hurricane: They were electrocuted as they walked through water that was electrified by a downed power line.

Without missing a beat, Allison’s only question was: “What happened to the dog?”

That obviously underscores her priorities, and her leanings toward four-footed creatures. More evidence: She lived on a ranch for four years or so, taking care of about 50 horses including her full-time job as a hairstylist. And the horse she leases, Gammon, is one of the great loves of her life.

Al and Gammon.

She was devastated when her first dog, Yippers (aptly named because the little feller yapped at everything and everybody), passed into the great beyond of Kibbles and Bits, and her love for her present dog, Rodeo, knows no bounds.

Al's Yippers lives on in doggie heaven, and her heart.

As for Rodeo, he's a loyal friend and dedicated sentinel for Allison, often taking up his post on her front porch to watch the world go by as he waits for her to return from work.

Rodeo maintains his vigil at one of his favorite spots, on Allison's front porch.

So, in the course of her life, Al’s always preferred to stay an arm’s length from kids. Indeed, she even used to stiffen up when a child came into a room, and got a deer-in-headlights look if it looked like a youngster might touch her.

Until NOW. Aunt Allison is a whole different animal, so to speak, and it’s kind of a triple-A situation: Allison, Amelia, and Avery. When Amelia and Avery are around, she has dears in her headlights.

In fact, she even blows bubbles with Amelia during trips to California.

How cute is THAT, with Al reprising her childhood with niece Amelia?

And during her most recent trip, after she’d been gone for a couple of hours, Amelia approached her seriously and grabbed her leg, almost sobbing, as she said, “I missed you sooooooooooo MUCH.”

As for Avery, even though he’s in a phase in which he cries when some people try to hold him, namely Allison and moi, among a few others, Aunt Allison still cuddles the little bugger, as evidenced by this photo of them when we were out for lunch a couple of months back.

Once averse to children, Aunt Al now hugs Avery with a passion.

So the daughter who once froze around kids now melts, although she doesn’t always like to admit that.

When I told her I was working on this column about her softening heart as an aunt, she mulled the idea quietly for a few seconds before saying: “Well, OK, but Rodeo’s still my favorite.”

And THAT's OK. (But pictures tell a different story: The kids are at least equal, no?)

Tip du Jour: Trim Your Nose Hairs the 28th of Every Month

I realize now that I was remiss in not teaching my kids a lot of basic life skills, such as how to check the oil in their cars, but I never even thought of passing on my theory of nose-hair hygiene.

Actually, in my defense, I didn’t develop my nose-hair regimen until, oh, a decade or so ago. I didn’t even realize I needed one until one day when I tripped. On one of my nose hairs.



And now, I’ve also had to develop an ear-hair regimen because, well, a blue pill is the least of worries for men of a certain age, in my opinion. Finding hair in all the wrong places is the main problem.

Back to basic life skills. Obviously, I should have showed the kids what’s under the hood of a car instead of just assuming they learned it in driver’s ed, like I did. I still remember laughing at a joke one day that pivoted on a dumb blonde trying to put oil down that tiny hole — the dipstick hole instead of the oil entry point. (Mind you, I scolded the joke teller, insisting that I found dumb blonde jokes distasteful.)

Imagine my surprise, then, about a week later, when Brendan called me and asked how to get oil down the little hole. DOH! The joke was on me — and I really felt like a dipstick.

Similarly, I should have clued the kids in to my nose-hair-clipping schedule. Perhaps that would have spared my oldest, Annie, from the angst she endured when Amelia looked up at her the other day and said, “Spider webs, mommy?”

From the mouths of babes, and 2-year-olds . . .

Of course, I wouldn’t narc Annie out if she hadn’t narc’ed herself, via Facebook. People say the darndest things about themselves on Facebook. Indeed, Art Linkletter could have had a bazillion more things to run if Facebook and YouTube had been around when he used to regale TV audiences with his kid kwotes.

With no further ado, before I bid this life adieu, I figure it’s my obligation to tell not only my kids but also the 10 or 12 people who read this blog the best approach to keeping spider webs out of the old schnoz.

Timing is the key. You must trim once a month — at least that works for me. And my schedule is simple: The 28th of every month, I haul out my little battery-powered nose-hair clipper and whack away.

Why the 28th, you ask? It’s simple, really. If I waited until the 29th, then I would end up missing a month every leap year. Why not the first day of the month? DOH! That answer is simple, too: To avoid confusing it with other notable holidays, such as New Year's Day and May Day.

So the 28th is best, to avoid confusion.

Speaking of confusion, I’ve found that missing a month can be nearly fatal. I’m anal, you see, so, if I happen to miss the appointed day, my OCD tendencies force me to wait until the next opportunity. And a month’s overgrowth can snarl a guy’s arms and feet like the trees trying to grab Dorothy in the forest.

In short, guy can trip on a birds nest of nose hairs, fall down the steps and break his hip. And it’s all downhill from there.

So, chilluns, when your car needs oil, take it to the dealership, which I do because I never knew how to change the oil even back when cars were easy to work on. And clip your nose hairs on the 28th of the month.

The only alternative I can think of is just giving up and braiding the snotlocker locks.




Amelia’s words of wisdom to Annie came during a visit to the Midwest. I hadn’t seen her since she was a baby, and MY how she’s grown. She nestled right in with a bunch of stuffed toys at our house, when she wasn’t eating watermelon, that is.





And now, I’m going to go clip. My toenails. I don’t have a set date for them.





.

Call Me PikeMike, Just Like Jack Christened Me

A picture is worth a thousand words, so I’ll forgo my usual opus and let the picture stand for itself.

This Northern Pike, caught off our dock out back and down the hill in the Mississippi bayou, would have weighed in at 18.5 pounds if I would have had a scale and been brave enough to hoist the scaly, saber-toothed dinosaur.


Kate also asked whether I wanted her to take a picture of me holding it before I released it to join its relatives in the muddy waters. I passed on that opportunity — its teeth were HUGE — and just made it a tale of the tape on the ground before returning the scaly monster to the deep. Fortunately, Google sent me to a website that computes the weight based on the length, 40 inches in this case. (Google can tell you the DAMNDEST things, eh?)

Well, here I am already violating my vow to be brief, because the light just dawned, and I need to share an anecdote:

I always thought that Jack just had trouble pronouncing my name back when he was 1½ or 2. He didn’t seem to be able to spit out the three syllables of Papa Mike, like Vincent did, and he wouldn’t say just Mike, for some reason — probably as a show of respect, even at that young age.

So he settled on PikeMike, which remains my fave nickname to this day. And I still find it amazing the solutions that kids come up with to solve their problems.

And now I realize that Jack wasn’t tongue-tied but a genius — a psychic, even — who could see into the future, predicting that folks someday might acknowledge my Northern Pike prowess. I can just imagine that, after I’ve passed on to the fishing grounds in the sky, earthbound folks still will be talking about old PikeMike in the same breath as they recall legends such as Davy Crockett and another famous Mike: Mike Fink.

I think I’ll let the lad pick some lottery numbers for me, and I might even ask him when HE thinks the rapture will be. Why wait for all the others, after so many predictions have proved wrong over the years, when there's a psychic in the house?

I Feel Like a Tyke, With a Bike

I always step back a bit and relish the sight when a parent and a child trek from the bicycle section nestled in the back of a big-box store, with the youngster grinning broadly and the parent smiling proudly as they queue up to pay for the offspring’s first bike. The excitement in the child’s sparkling eyes is a sight to behold, as much as the lad’s or lassie’s mouth will behold new teeth when the next generation of choppers pushes through to replace the newly fallen baby teeth.

Imagine the irony, then, when daughter Allison took me to a big-box store to buy a combo birthday/Father’s Day present of a new fishing tackle satchel and some lures — and we walked past the bicycle section tucked in the rear of the store. Each of us tarried, thinking the same thing, until we voiced the thought, almost simultaneously, that maybe I should get a bike.

Oh, I don’t mean the clunky three-wheelers that some men of a certain age wrangle, all decked out with a slow-moving vehicle sign and a tall orange flag fluttering in the breeze so nobody hits ’em. Rather, two 2-wheelers in particular beckoned. Two beckoned, both retro looking: a blue Schwinn and a tan and blue Huffy.

Even though I leaned toward the Schwinn’s big-name status, the Huffy’s color scheme was soooooooo much cooler. Plus, what’s more retro than the Huffy name? The seat even had “Huffy” emblazoned on it, right above those old-fashioned springs on its big, comfy-looking seat, a common design before the onslaught of bikes with butt-busting seats that make you feel like you’ve been hoisted on your own petard.

The deciding factor came after a store employee invited me to take a ride, right there in the aisle. So I did, and found the Huffy more to my liking. (Later, Allison acknowledged that I had looked a bit wobbly on the Schwinn, and more relaxed on the Huffy.)

Next thing I knew, we were walking my new bike past the fishing equipment, with me grinning ear to ear and Allison (we share birthdays, by the way) chuckling and shaking her head and admonishing me that, if I get hurt on the bike, she’ll feel so guilty that she’ll KILL me.

“And you’d better wear a helmet,” she warned, as if she were a parent lecturing a petulant little kid.

I daresay that this retro Huffy is a lot more comfy and rider-friendly than the adult chopper bike — it was a Schwinn, as a matter of fact — that I just HAD to have a couple of years back. I bought it for myself, for my birthday, without even trying it out, because I just liked it and thought I’d look cool.

As it turned out, I did look cool on it, and I’m not bragging. A coupla twentysomething guys stopped me one day to admire the chopper and inquire about it. Awestruck, one of them said, “I bet you could pick up a lot of chicks with this.”

Well, I guess I could have fitted a chick on the banana seat, but I never tried. In fact, I learned soon after buying my cool-looking bike that it had three drawbacks:
1. It made my bum and, uh, other “nether regions,” shall I say, go to sleep.
2. I couldn’t stand up, which probably is why I ended up with a numb bum and, uh, another extremity.
3. The fact that the front wheel was pitched far forward made turning in a circle a daunting task. Indeed, the turning circumference was so wide that I started turning left in West Palm Beach one day on Florida’s east coast, and ended up in Naples, on the Sunshine State’s west coast, before I came full circle.

So I sold it to a guy who was going to put a motor on it so his wife could have a chopper matching his.

I had no reason to get huffy about it, as the bike and I just didn’t fit together. And now, I’m pleased as punch to be riding my Huffy, although Kate informed me that it’s blue and yellow rather than blue and tan, as I had thought. Well, the fenders look tan to me, anyway.

When I called to report in to Al how great it worked after my first lengthy excursion, her only question was: “Were you wearing your helmet?”

OK, enough is enough on this parent-child role reversal.

P.S.: Kate likes my ride so much that I bought her a matching chick bike for her birthday. After all, I figured it was worth it to mark a milestone like a 30th birthday. Hers is the Huffy female companion to mine, lime green with tan fenders. Or, as she refers to tan: yellow.

Allison happened to call as we were at the store picking it up. Her question: “Are you getting her a helmet, too?” Good GAWD, who died and appointed her to the helmet police corps?

Mike and his bike, wearing his helmet, and without:

Now that I look at this photo, I can't help recalling something about little Ms. Wear-Your-Helmet, or ELSE Allison: See that stone wall behind me? Well, during her first visit to our new digs in the Badger State, she backed up her car and ran right into the dadgum thing. Oh, the only damages were a few scratches and a bruised ego. Ironically, her car even has one of those back-up cameras with which she should have seen the wall, if she'd have been paying attention. Seems to me maybe SHE's the one who should be wearing a helmet.

Don't Be Tardy for My Party: Two License Plates Are Too Damn Many

At first blush, my announcement of a new political party might be as far removed from the Grandfather Clause’s purpose of spotlighting my grandchildren as the sun is from Pluto (and that poor thing isn’t even a planet anymore). Although my cheeks are flushed with anger, I’m not blushing as I proclaim the formation of my “Two License Plates Are Too Damn Many Party.”

First, I must apologize to Jimmy McMillan for swiping part of the mantra of his “Rent Is Too Damn High Party” in his campaign to be governor of New York last fall.



Now, like Jimmy’s being concerned about children, I’m founding my party because it’s also about the kids, and their futures.

I raise the issue because I just moved from Florida, one of only 19 states that requires a plate only on the back, to Wisconsin, which demands plates on the front AND back, like most other states. I submit that the requirement is a total waste of the raw materials of metal and paint to make the plates.

Think how much metal could be saved if the states dumped the laws requiring two plates. The front plate seems superfluous to me, even if some might argue that the double duty provides gainful employment to prisoners tasked with making them.

My party will focus on the money-saving and resource-saving aspect of switching to just one plate, instead of the shallow arguments of those with classic cars who say the front plates distract from the beauty and lines of the grille.

I don’t buy the bogus argument I ran across in researching the bylaws for my party that the front plate is to help the increasingly common cameras to catch red-light runners. First of all, the double-plating requirement was there long before those controversial cameras came to pass. Secondly, all they have to do is readjust the cameras to shoot the car’s rear plates. Thirdly, why do police think they need to check you coming and going, anyway?

I didn’t pay much attention to the two-plate law in my home state of Nebraska because the long arm of the law never reached out and touched me. But my resentment of front plates actually started more than a decade ago, when I lived in Minnesota. Gopher State winters take their toll on front plates, as they easily come off as the cars plow through snowy streets. And state troopers and police take advantage of that, ticketing folks who don’t have the front plate to generate revenue for city coffers.

I got nabbed once, but that wasn’t my main gripe. My ire was directed at the St. Paul cops who routinely drove through high school parking lots and ticketing students’ cars that had only one plate. Brendan got snagged more than once. Even though it was simple enough to go to the traffic judge and explain the problem, it was inconvenient to have to take time off of work to head to the courthouse.

I always thought the police should be out catching real criminals instead of picking on kids who were in school studying their butts off.

I understand there are petition drives in California and other states to get rid of front license plates, despite law enforcement’s plea that the front plates make their jobs easier. (Other than picking on high school kids, what are they saying, that they start a lot of arrests by looking in their rear-view mirrors or they catch people in high-speed chases in reverse? I think not.)

I can understand how it's a big issue in California. Just check out this shot of how the front plates are so heavy that they weigh down the landscape in the Golden State.



OK, that may not be the reason for the tilt here, which obviously is the result of a camera angle a San Francisco hill, but I'm using poetic license to advance my political spin that the superfluous plates even screw up nature. Why worry about global warming when the REAL issue is that the heaviness of the extra plates is slowing down global spinning to the extent that the world will stop someday, and whoever is on the half facing the sun will fry! Now THAT's a political issue that ought to concern people.

I’m still working on the bylaws for my party, but you can bet one of the main wherefores will be, “Wherefore we could save a potload of money (perhaps to repair winter potholes in Wisconsin and Minnesota), we hold this truth to be self evident: Two license plates are too damn many.

My grandkids will thank me when there’s still enough money to provide Social Security and Medicare for them with all the cash and steel saved, and enough steel to reinforce homes against tornadoes and such.

In the meantime, all I ask of you is for you to send me your signature saying you back the party. Ideally, it’d be nice if you’d put it on a check.

Thankyouverymuch.
Mike Tighe
President, Two License Plates Are Too Damn Many Party

Jack: A Character WITH Character

I always knew that Jack is a real character, but now another barometer ramps that assessment to a whole other level: His peers cherry-picked him for the honor of being THE first-grader of character at their school.

That’s right, the Jack of All Trades — he who is incredibly sensitive at the same time he revels in snakes and dinosaurs and his pet land crabs; mature beyond his age (heck, he was 10 seconds old, going on 50 years, before the cord was even clipped); a bon vivant since preschool; a stand-up comic, the list can go on — can add the additional distinction of being a character WITH character to his résumé.

His classmates voted him the honor based on character traits they learned throughout the year: responsibility, respectfulness, citizenship, trustworthiness and honesty. He snagged a trophy and a certificate, not to mention the steak dinner his family treated him to the night after the award at a school assembly gobsmacked him.


Proud parents Melissa and Skip with their honored son Jack and his trophy and certificate. He doesn't put on airs, despite his accolades.

I know Melissa and Skip should get the lion’s share of the credit for building this little man of character, but I’d like to think I had some influence, too. Nonetheless, I won’t toot my own horn, but rather salute Jack on this momentous occasion.

A great indicator of the depth of his character is that he recently narc’d himself out for a little mischief at school in which he wasn’t really the main culprit. I won’t go into details, other than to say he went home, agonizingly explained the situation to Melissa, and then suggested that she accompany him to school so he could confess to the teacher.

Imagine THAT. He wasn’t even indicted for the incident, but he felt the need to plead guilty. He also had apologized to the offended party, who is one of his friends, on the day the “crime” occurred. How’s that for character, and loyalty?

Frankly, it leaves me feeling a bit ashamed about a stunt I pulled when I was in fourth grade. We boys decided it would be fun to tackle the girls on the playground during noon recess. Fun, yes, but not such a good idea, we discovered in that era of paranoia over patent-leather shoes, when the nuns called us on the carpet and sentenced the guilty parties to a suitable punishment.

I now plead guilty to not pleading guilty then. I think my alibi to myself when S’Ter DeSales asked for a show of hands of boys involved in using the girls for tackling dummies was that, although I helped hatch the plan, I was too chicken to participate. Or maybe it was just that Jeannie Bartek, my girlfriend throughout grade school (in my mind; she never really seemed to acknowledge it, and she was even downright rebellious when she spat on the ground after I stole a smooch from her in first grade) eluded my grasp.

Whatever propelled my character lapse, I didn’t have to kneel at the front of the classroom, arms extended, as a penance. A couple of girls whined to S’Ter that I was in on the caper, but she dismissed their caterwauling by saying I wouldn’t do such a thing.

When the culprits’ arms sagged, S’ter berated them and told them to hold up their arms, scolding: “Now you’re feeling how Christ felt on the cross!”

If I had it to do over again, I’d ’fess up, and I’d try to swipe another kiss from Jeannie, who ended up carving her REAL boyfriend’s initials in her arm when she reached high school. And they weren’t “M.T.”

Years later, when I was a senior in high school, my image as an angel continued to bless me, and curse me. We senior boys decided it would be great fun to depants a freshman during recess. Great fun, except we picked a big, burly farm kid who cleaned our clock.

Of course, the brawl attracted the attention of the nuns, who told the priest, who not only raised hell with us, but called all of our parents to school to revile us in front of them.

In that case, I confessed to S’Ter Reparata that I was one of the ringleaders, but she pooh-poohed the idea, saying, “Michael, you’d never DO such a thing.” Instead, she singled out Mike Rooney because, as everybody knew, he smoked.

But enough about me. Back to Jack, and I don’t mean Black, although it was rather black of him, the way he reveled in looking at my hernia scar and pleaded to get to take out the stitches. Two of my fave recollections of the lad’s youth:

When he was about 2, I served him his traditional bowl of ice cream in the living room when he was over for a visit. I then went into the kitchen for a bit and, when I returned, I beheld the horrible sight of him with chocolate ice cream not only all over his face but also down his belly and dripped over quite a bit of the couch. Fortunately, he was shirtless, so he needed just a minor hosing down, and the couch was leather, so the goo wiped off fairly easily.
When he was a tot, he liked to run around the house nekkid after his bath. Lots of kids do that, I’m told, but I suspect that few have tried this pose: He stood on his head on a chair, leaving his, uh, privates (I guess some people call it junk these days) exposed to the world.

I wonder how many of his peers would have voted for him THAT day? Well, I guess he still would have gotten the nod for being a “character.”

Anyway, I salute Jack and his parents, and his siblings, for his honor. After all, it takes a family to raise a child. Of CHARACTER.

Babysit a Rookie Walker Is a Piece of Cake. NOT!

“How hard can it be?” I wondered when son Brendan asked Kate and me to watch 1-year-old Avery for a few minutes while he ran an errand.

After all, I’d become a pro these past few years at reining in four Italian stallions without too much strain or additional gray hairs in my silver mane, so I figured that tethering a leprechaunish pony should be as easy as cow pies, right? I soon realized the folly of my ways and learned that the Four Horsemen paled in comparison with Avery, who forced me to face my apocalypse. NOW.

The quadhorsemen evolved, as sort of my breaking-in period, starting with Vincent, now 9, joined by Jack, now 7, Luke, at 5, and little Patrick Michael, bringing up the rear at 3 now.


The Four Horsemen, clockwise from upper left, Vincent, Jack, Patrick and Luke.

Although each is a handful in his own way, I don’t recall any being as hell-bent-for-mischief as Avery Michael.

Well, now, I take that back. A couple of months ago, when I was staying overnight with the quartet so their parents could have some respite during an overnight trip, I was making dinner in the kitchen while the boys watched TV and/or played with Legos, or trucks, or this, or that.

But it seemed quieter than usual — their house often is nothing short of rock concert decibel noise level — and I realized that only three boys were in my line of sight. So I went to the living room that serves as their playroom and discovered that Patrick had opened a jar of paint. And spilled it. On himself. On the table. And onto the chair.

Panicked, I grabbed paper towels and ran to clean up the mess. That’s when I discovered that he also had smeared the blue paint all over the wall, too. Thank GAWD it was water-based, and I was able to eradicate most of it from the bright yellow, textured wall. But still … on the WALL? Patrick MICHAEL! What were you thinking? (On other hand, it reminded me of the time, when I was 10 or so, when I opened a can of paint in a neighbor’s basement, just out of curiosity, and it spilled all OVER the new tile floor. What was I thinking? DAMN! My dad was maaaaaaaad!)

Back to the present, when Skip and Melissa returned from their overnight, I confessed, embarrassed, what had happened. Melissa, who formerly could be a tad high strung on occasion and used to get a little chuffed when I put cereal and other stuff in the cupboard with the labels pointed the wrong way, now is the epitome of calm with her boisterous boys. And she acknowledged that it wasn’t the first time Patrick Michael had pulled a Michelangelo. He had done it under her watch, too, so I was off of the painter’s petard.

Alas, Avery is showing signs of being a frisky little fella, too, just like his father before him. The lad wouldn’t sit still, and the dogs’ water bowls were especially attractive to him. Like a moth to a flame, he kept rushing to the bowls, each time beating me to the punch and splashing water about.

He headed for the steps and was nearly halfway up before I caught up and put up the gate. Then out to the porch to play with Aunt Allison’s candles (fortunately, they weren’t lit), then back to the water bowls, then onto my lap for a minute before darting to the TV to try to touch the horses in the Derby. Here and there, hither and yon, like the kids in the Family Circus cartoon roam around the neighborhood on the way home.

When I, huffing and puffing, chafed at the task, Kate pointed out that the lad had just started walking, and he was determined to explore everything, everywhere. OK, OK, I understand, but I still can’t fathom the magnetic attraction of the dog water bowls, or the fathoms of water he splashes from them.

Marveling at how he was outpacing me, I remembered a key difference: I hadn’t consciously realized the adjustments I must have I made as the Italian train added cars, and I made allowances along the way. To the point that I can even take all four to a movie without losing my mind as I juggle popcorn, drinks, snacks and boys in a darkened theater.

The difference is, it occurs to me, that somebody’s got my back when I’m with the Four Horsemen. Although Patrick’s three predecessors as the caboose all are very protective of him when we’re out and about, Vincent is especially attentive. He hangs back to watch his little brother, as kind of my fifth column.

For example, when we were in a huge Halloween store in October, and the boys wandered in awe at all the scary masks and swords and costumes and goblins, oh, my, and I was having trouble keeping track, Vincent hung back and made sure Patrick didn’t slip disappear into the abyss of horror masks and mechanical spiders.

Ah, yes, the young teach the old. Problem now is that the Four Horsemen are in Florida, and I’m in Wisconsin, and the Avery train is in Minnesota. I know all four of the Italian Stallions would help me keep track of their smaller cousin, because they literally smothered him with affection when the little bugger visited them in the Sunshine State a couple of months back.

The Four Horsemen surround the pony boy.

So I’ll rely on Kate to have my back. And I’ll have to teach Avery, just as I did Vincent when I jumped the shark that is the Granddad Train, that it’s perfectly OK to have doughnuts for lunch at Dunkin’ Donuts, then go to Baskin Robbins next door for dessert, and stop at the Dairy Queen on the way home for a snack.

Although I’ve had to cut back on the ice cream because it doesn’t melt from my body like it does when my metabolism was young, I suspect Avery will help me burn the calories. And I can rely on visits from and to the Four Horsemen to keep both Avery and me in shape.

As for Brendan and Erica, they could be in for a bumpy ride. I’d suggest that, to Avery-proof their house, they might want to lock up all the paint, for starters.

Avery celebrates during a restaurant outing.

As for Brendan, he's going to have to perk up a bit to keep up with his leprechaun:

BTW, this photo is not posed. Look closely, and you'll see that I actually caught Brendan not only sleeping while holding Avery but also sleeping while TEXTING!. I confess, I fell asleep on occasion with a kid on my lap, but not TEXTING. Oh, WAIT. Back then, even pagers hadn't been invented. In fact, I believe we had a princess phone.

Patrick's Cups Runneth Over

I guess it’s only fitting that Patrick would go shopping for an Easter bonnet a few days before Easter. How else could one explain the fact that he first tried a bra on his head in the lingerie shop at a big-box store, mom Melissa reports.

But there weren’t any frills upon it, so the 2-year-old must have thought “arrrrrrrrgh,” because his second attempt was to try it as an eye patch. The lad loves playing pirates, but he apparently saw the error of his ways because the cup obviously runneth over most of his face instead of his eye.

So he got down to business and put things in their proper places.

Although the look is rather fetching (somebody should caution him not to wear a white shirt with that color), I think he can downsize, don’tcha think?


While he’s checking out starters, he’ll probably stumble across the fact that he really should be looking at a cup of a different sort. Well, some day — and a day that will come in the blink of an eye, as Melissa will find out, as she already is discovering with the other three horsemen of the Apocalypse.

Although his varied attempts to wear what I used to call a double slingshot, in my immature days (some say they’re not over), may indicate that he’s unclear on the concept, evidence abounds that he knows exactly what bras are for. Time was, back before he was weaned from the trough, he would tug violently at Melissa’s blouse when he wanted a snort.

Speaking of snorts, all of this reminds me of an incident lo, those many days ago, when Vincent, who is 9 now, was just about the age that Patrick is now and frequently experienced withdrawal symptoms after his weaning.

One day, when he happened to be in the bedroom when Melissa was dressing. He looked longingly at his former sources of nourishment, and pleaded, “Can’t I just smell them?”

I used to relate that anecdote during speaking gigs about grandfathering to audiences who were mostly grandparents themselves, and usually mostly female. It invariably brought chuckles and an occasional guffaw.

In one case, I spoke to a group that was about 50-50 male-female. After peals of laughter subsided, a gentleman who appeared to be about 70 turned to his wife and whined, too loudly, as it turned out, “That’s all I want to do!”

That left many in the audience laughing so hard that they FOTCL, as the kids would say these days.

Sooooooooo, no matter how you wear your bonnet, or whether there are frills upon it, have a happy and holy Easter or, if you’re of Jewish descent, a blessed Passover season.

P.S.: In another example of the fact that kids say the darndest things, unwittingly leaving others with red faces, 7-year-old Jack was touring a police station today and the police officer took out his handcuffs to show the lads and the den leaders. Jack raised his hand and said, "My Papa Mike has handcuffs in his bedroom and I can get out of them without the key!"

Now, let me explain: Doesn't everybody have handcuffs around in case there's a burglar? Oh, never mind.

P.P.S.: Updating with a few Easter pix, triangulated to the points of my grandchildren stars from California, to the Twin Cities, to Florida.

Amelia, the sole granddaughter of the bunch (so far):



Avery, decked out in his three-piece suit:



And the Four Horsemen, from left, Patrick (he went with a braless look for Easter), Vincent, Luke, and Jack:



Here's the backstory on this photo: I used to drive Melissa bonkers when she was trying to take family photos, and I'd make a face to bollix up the works. Now is payback time for her, obviously

A Treat Is in the Ear of the Beholder (and Sometimes, All Over Her Face)

As someone who’s been accused of lifting anal tendencies to a whole new level, I can appreciate a lad’s linear thinking. Thus, I wasn’t surprised at Jack’s befuddlement at church a couple of weeks back.

It was a special occasion, when Luke was to line up on the steps of the altar with his preschool classmates to lift their voices in song. Of course, such performances are loaded with anticipation about who’s going to sing, who’s going to remain as tongue-tied as a shy high-schooler asking a girl to dance for the first time, who might start bawling, and, of course, who will steal the show with a faux pas and then run with it when peals of laughter encourage him to keep on keeping on with his shenanigans.

So, we kept our eyes and ears peeled for such shenanigans, the minister assured us, “I’ve heard these children sing, and I promise you, you’re in for a real treat!”

Literal-thinking Jack’s face contorted with puzzlement as he nudged closer to me and whispered, “Does that mean we’re going to get food?”

I smiled and recalled his reaction just a couple of years back when the previous minister had invited the youngsters up to circle at the foot of the altar for the children’s sermon. The minister told the circle of children he was going to tell them about Peanuts, without realizing that that age group knew little or nothing about that age-old comic strip.

Jack’s face peeked up from the cluster of children like a meerkat checking the outskirts of his colony as the lad mouthed this question to me: “Penis?”



I had to stifle a laugh at the fact not only that kids these days say the darndest things because they use the sophisticated for body parts that our parents never would have DREAMED teaching us such terms.

In this case, I whispered to him that, in this case, “treat” means a treat for the ears. (And, in this case, as in most other instances of youthful performers, they delivered a chorus that only a parent, or a grandparent, could enjoy. The others in the congregation endured it, albeit with smiles and, perhaps, memories of kids long grown and grandkids in far-off places.)

Unlike Luke’s previous appearance, when he mostly remained as mummified as an ancient Egyptian king, he chipped right in with song and gestures. Oh, his rhythm might have been off some, but I’m not one to criticize in that department.

Of course, a couple of girls carried the chorus in song and motion, and nobody really stole the show. Luke managed to fend off the pestering actions of the boy standing next to him.

Although Jack didn’t respond to the minister’s invitation to come forth for the kids sermon this time, he mulled the possibility when the minister said all children in the congregation could follow the youth minister to the craft room for the rest of the service.

“Jack,” I whispered, “are you going to go do crafts?”

“What will they DO to us?” he said skeptically.

He hesitated until the parade of children was almost out the door before joining. What did they do to him? Well, I think he did get a treat, as in a cookie or something, and they crafted pictures of colored windows.

Speaking of treats and grandkids, here’s one that just flew in through the cyberspace transom. Granddaughter Amelia chowing down, while grinning and smearing from ear to ear. Now this dish of spaghetti looks like a real treat gone rogue, uh, or should I say, rouge?

Ahhhh, Movies in God's Waiting Room

In case you don’t understand the description of Florida as “God’s Waiting Room”: It means no disrespect, at least in my opinion, as an aging resident here who may move back north someday soon for the cryogenic factor of the Upper Midwest vs. the boil-in-the-baggy-skin element of the Sunshine State. (I may not live longer, but mayhaps my skin won’t be as sun- folded, spindled, and mutilated.)

Like a doctor’s office, God’s Waiting Room branches off into smaller rooms, inner chambers, if you will. One ventures beyond The Door when a nurse summons you to weigh you and see whether you still have a pulse, probably similar to the process you’ll endure when you’re measured for your wings.

In doctor’s offices, these inner sanctums are called exam rooms. In Florida, they can be called emergency rooms, bingo parlors, elderly day-care centers, all-you-can-eat buffets with early-bird specials, and discount movie theaters — especially discount theaters that also have a senior citizen discount.

Perhaps I’m being hyperbolic, but perhaps not — after all, I’m pushing the age formerly known as retirement — when I saw the traditional theater aroma of buttered popcorn must fight to get its own two scents in above the smell of Ben-Gay. This is all in good fun, so I hope these words don’t make anybody go grayer than I already am.

Besides, it’s about my entering the theater with four grandsons in tow and emerging from the cartoon movie just barely being able to keep pace with the senior citizens hobbling from the anterooms where they had viewed movies with more adult themes. So I’m in the same shape, almost needing a walker.

The Four Horsemen and I attended "Rango," a cartoon flick that kids can enjoy and Western aficionados such as I can enjoy just as much while trying to pinpoint which cowboy movies it takes jabs at, from the obvious Spaghetti Westerns of Clint Eastwood's Man-With-No-Name era, to nearly obvious ones such as "Cat Ballou," to the oh, so subtle hint of "Once Upon a Time in the West." And, for the heck of it, the flick tosses in scenes reminiscent of "Star Wars."



Although I'm a huge fan of the Spaghetti Westerns, I've always thought that they were too long, as is "Rango," Johnny Depp or no.

Concerns about length are natural when taking four lads ages 2 to 9, especially because Patrick can become restless and lobby to go home. And that happened shortly after I'd gotten the boys lined up with their smuggled candy and I'd divvied up the two large Icy drinks, when a HUGE guy came in just as the show started and plopped right in front of Patrick. Poor tot had no hope of seeing around the guy, and he whimpered immediately that he'd like to go home.

I was sitting at the other end of the boy line, so I crouched down and started to crawl past Jack, Luke and Vincent to rescue Patrick. Somewhere along the line, I tripped over a foot — I'm not sure which boy's and I'm SURE nobody tripped me intentionally, and I lurched forward.

I caught myself, kinda-sorta, and that's when the muscle pulled. I was afraid my back had gone out, as it has a couple of times doing really inconsequential things that twisted my back just a tad.

Fortunately, even though the pain pinched, I was able to maintain as much composure and dignity as a guy can sprawling headlong across a row of seats. The trip, so to speak, was in vain, because I couldn't talk Patrick into sitting in my lap so he could see better. Melissa tells me that's because he gets possessive even after he's been in a seat for only a few seconds.

As for my back, it didn't seem to hurt all that much, until I stood up, or tried to. It was a slow process, walking gingerly, but my back felt better by the time I got to the lobby. That's when I looked back and saw the legions of older folks slowly walking my way. Plodding. Slowly. Along. Like a wild stampede. Of snails.

Suddenly, I felt young again.

The real pain didn't hit until the next day. Even though it wasn't nearly as bad as some of the other times my back has gone out, it put me in my place. In God's Waiting Room.

Just a few weeks before, when grandson Avery visited, I was able to pick the 1-year-old up effortlessly. Now, it'll be awhile.



During that visit, the Four Horsemen (from left) Vincent, Jack, Luke and Patrick hammed it up while Melissa held her nephew.



P.S.: Don't ask ME why those pix are so small. Operator error plus, I really can't do any heavy lifting right now.

Avery's 1 year old

Talk about a picture being worth a thousand words, here's how the lad devoured his birthday cake.



I SUPPOSE he got some cake in his mouth, but he frosting-ed himself in the process. He looks quite pleased with the cake, or himself.

Happy birthday, little guy!!! Time to get out the HOSE.

Bieber Fever? Never Say Never.

Thousands of Justin Bieber fans stand tall and proud, proclaiming and screaming and even squealing their adoration of him. (OK, some would say millions of fans, but I’m not ready to make that leap of faith for a 16-year-old heartthrob [probably because I’m just a tad jealous of the fact that he was a YouTuber one day and a superstar almost the next].)Other Beliebers, however, remain in the catacombs, partly because of peer pressure and partly because of sibling rivalry, I’ve come to discover.

Take 9-year-old Vincent, for instance. When 7-year-old bro Jack scored a fantastic get of riding a friend’s coattails to a premier showing of “Justin Bieber: Never Say Never,” Vincent, who’s never been one to say never, announced that he’d never want to go to the flick. He doesn’t like Bieber, he proclaimed, and neither did his special “friend” at school, nor did the twin boys he counts among his best pals.

Never. Ever. Bieber. Fever.



Even when Jack came home from the premier sporting the special backstage pass on a lanyard and the purple (because Justin’s fave color is purple, which means the women of all ages who find the boy fetching don’t adhere to the saying, “When I’m old, I’ll wear purple”) 3-D glasses that were part of the package, Vincent still said never.

Until he had a confessional moment with Mom, and confided in Melissa that, actually, he likes the Biebs, and he wanted to see the movie. But all of his friends, including that special one, were saying they didn’t like the musical phenom.

Melissa soothed his fears, though, with the maternal advice that it’s OK to like someone or something, even when your friends don’t. And she would be happy to take him to the movie. (No doubt, because she, too, might harbor a soft spot for the young Canadian.)

The next day, Vincent came home triumphantly proclaiming that he had admitted to his special friend that he likes Bieber and, to his surprise, she said SHE did, too. (Never say never.) So Melissa and special friend’s mom decided they’d take the two out-of-the-closet Bieber fans to the movie.

A day or so later, Melissa received a note on a letter piece of paper with a message something like this scrawled in a third-grader’s hand: “Dear Mrs. C: I like Justin Bieber, too, and could you call my mom to see if she would take me to the movie, too.” The lad is none other than one of Vincent’s twin friends who had said they’d never say yes to Bieber.

And now, as I write, three moms and four children are seeing a movie they never thought they’d agree to attend, just a few days ago. Their lesson, I suppose, is to never say never. Isn’t that just ludicrous?



Secondary lesson: True Beliebers don’t let sibling rivalry or peer pressure prevent them from ushering in their love at least one time.




As to my own opinion about the movie’s title song? I’ll never say. Ever.

Avery's Tickle-Tickle-Tickle Vacation, With a Panty-Raiding Side Trip (for the Dogs)

Turns out that little Avery developed a vocabulary twixt the time we met, when he was a mere 10 weeks old, and when he visited a few days back, at 10 months.

I wasn’t quite sure what to expect, as I’ve been technologically challenged at connecting with him via Skype. Of course, kids that age jabber and jabber and jabber, and even prattle on into a real or imagined cell phone, until Mommy or Daddy puts a real phone up to their mugs to have ’em chat with gramps. Then they go silent, as he often did.

So I didn’t know whether he’d be able to recite Lincoln’s Gettysburg address from memory, or just stammer out a few feeble attempts at Mom and Dad. Imagine my surprise when he balked at the one-syllable words but rattled off compound-complex verbals like a drummer rat-tat-tatting a riff at a rock concert.

That said, I’ve got to acknowledge that he’s kind of a one-riff percussionist. If he said it once during his one-week visit to Florida from the Minnesota tundra, he said it a bazillion times: “tickle-tickle-tickle.”

That’s his mantra, which he learned from his Grandma Stromberg: Tickle-tickle-tickle. He doesn’t necessarily pair it with tickling, just random conversation.

“Hey, AVERY, good morning!” I’d say each morning as he tried to scoot away from Dewey’s ritual of sniffing the lad’s butt. (Not that Dewey is a prevert — it’s just that he isn’t around babies much, so he uses his traditional dog greeting of butt-sniffing.)

“Tickle-tickle-tickle,” Avery would answer.

“How ’bout some lunch, Avery,” I’d say.

“Tickle-tickle-tickle,” he’d reply.

I’d even try to change up the tone by taunting: “Hey AVERY, how ’bout them Packers, cleaning the Vikings’ clock and mopping up the Metrodome with Brett Favre?”

Even though Avery’s blood runs as Vikings purple as his dad, Brendan, despite Brendan’s upbringing as a Bears fan, the cute little rugrat’s singular reply to the trash talking: “Tickle-tickle-tickle.”

Well, he’ll be 1 soon, and I bet he knows more words by then. As for me and Kate, and Dewey and Jazzy, we were tickled pink that Avery visited, with his dad, Brendan; mom, Erica; and aunt, Allison. (Well, truth be told, Dew loved Allison, too, although Jazz remained aloof, as is her wont. But both were less enthused about her lectures cajoling us to quit feeding them so much because they’ve put on a few extra pounds. They still are pissed about that. I suspect that, if I put a photo of Al in front of them, they’d growl at it [well, they’d muster as big of a “grrrrrrrrr“” as they can from their now-emaciated torsos].)

Also tickled were Avery’s cousins, the Four Horseman of Apocalyptic Noise: Vincent, Jack, Luke, and Patrick. The Fab Four had been looking forward to his visit for weeks, and they wasted no time in tumbling into a tangle of tiny testosterone to mug for the camera.

Monkeying around on the couch are, from left, Jack, Avery, Luke, Patrick, and Vincent. During the trip, the Gopher State Guests managed to sandwich in a delayed Christmas celebration at our house and an early birthday party for Jack at the Fab Four's abode.

The Northerners had fun during the visit, although the Sunshine State didn’t show much sun between the time they arrived until they left (it’s been shining pretty much since their planes’ wheels left the runway — and that took some heft, with Brendan and Erica’s overweight bags).

And we had fun hosting them, although the dogs reprised an incident we had forgotten about. When Gloria, one of Kate’s longtime buddies, visited several months ago, the canines pulled off a caper when we were gone from the house one day. They rifled through Gloria’s belongings on a panty raid, and scattered her drawers around the house.

Similarly, we left them alone one day when we were showing the folks from the Gopher State around town and, upon our return, we discovered that the bandits had rifled through Erica’s and Allison’s suitcases and had a panty party.

I suspect that Dewey’s the randy one: After all, Jazzy carries such a superior air that I can’t imagine her longing for thongs. But Dewey’s the mischievous one, plus, he bullies sister Jazz, he goes bonkers when it’s time for a walk, and his black coat has such a sheen that sometimes I think I should call him Charlie. If I find out he’s addicted to panties, I’m gonna make him go to rehab, even if he says, “Bark, bark, bark.” (Translation, “No, no, no,” with apologies to Amy Winehouse.)



But enough about Dewey’s dastardly deeds. This is about Avery’s vacation to Florida, where he took in the sights and got to see me catch an 8-to-10-pound bass in the lake out back. Well, it WOULD have weighed that much, if it hadn’t been on Weight Watchers or something. It was LONG, but its belly was flat.

And, of course, the lad napped on the beach.



That picture just left me tickled-tickled-tickled.